


A Cup of Kindness

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [15]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Economics, M/M, New Year's Eve, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: “I was not just another unfortunate, out-of-work man. I was John Watson, lover of the infamous Sherlock Holmes, sent to prison in a blaze of publicity.”The pace picks up here. Together, they hope to overturn what Moran has done.This is part of a Victorian AU where Reichenbach happened, but Moran won and carried on what Moriarty had begun. At this point, Watson has served two years in prison for gross indecency and Holmes, presumed dead for nearly eight years, has returned to him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	A Cup of Kindness

Though traditionally the end of the year is a time of reflection on the past, my mind was on the future as 1898 ended. It had been a year both terrible and wonderful, full of grief and hope and finally, unexpected joy. On the last day of December, I went about my work, daring to think of what might be possible now. Holmes was greatly recovered from his ordeal, though not quite as strong as he’d been in his prime. Well, we were both older now, and under the circumstances (Holmes being a fugitive, myself an ex-convict), could hardly expect to do the things we used to do. But we could work. We were strong enough for that still, and possibly more.

Our feelings for one another had been intensified by all the things we’d been through since Reichenbach. When you believe a person is dead and know that you will never see them again, your thoughts arrange themselves in certain ways. You no longer remind yourself of what you mean to ask when you see them again, or think about how you might spend time with them. Every thought of that person provokes the sudden realisation of finality. There are no more apologies for things said and done. The past is a sealed tomb, and memories are insubstantial wisps of thought, lacking substance and tinged with bittersweet regret because all the things you might say to them are now moot.

After Holmes, that’s how it was for me, trying to move ahead once I’d left the limbo of prison, and realising how deeply I regretted losing him. I blamed myself; I should not have left him. Over and over, I replayed the scene at the falls in my head, trying to see what I might have done, and how the result could have been different. There were moments where I had almost believed that if I could only imagine a different sequence of events vividly enough, I might change reality. Like an author deleting a badly-conceived scene, I might simply revise the plot.

But no matter how often I went over that ground, I still found myself on that path, staring down into the mist, calling until I was hoarse.

His return sometimes seemed like a happy dream, one from which I feared to wake. The first night we spent together, in my rooms at the hospital, I startled awake as I so frequently had, only to feel him lying beside me, to hear him breathing, to feel his arms go around me. _Alive, yes. This is real now. The other was just a dream._ _Real, alive._

Holmes has always said that of the two of us, I am the sentimental one, the heart that complements his brain. This is not entirely true; he has a large heart, and can be quite emotional. At times he was a mess of feelings, but he’d taught himself to shove messy sentiment aside when a case occupied his attention. At less inconvenient times, he played his violin or made love to me. I have seen him at a concert, lost in the music, quite transported from whatever problems occupied his brain into a world of pure emotion. In our bedroom, I have seen him undone and spent, unable to utter a single word. It was quite wonderful to see him when he was like that, indulging his feelings as if there would never be another opportunity.

Though there are times when it would be useful, I have never developed the ability to separate my feelings and lock them in a drawer. My intellect is not as great as his, nor my thinking so organised. Had he thought _me_ dead, he might have nailed that drawer shut, locked the door, and closed off the entire wing of the building, refusing to visit it ever again. Reason alone would rule in his mind.

But he would never have thought me dead. Had our circumstances been reversed, if he had returned to that empty path above the falls, had seen the cigarette case and read the note, he would have formed entirely different assumptions about what had happened there. Without a body, he would not have accepted my death as a fact.

I am certain that in the aftermath he had predicted exactly what I would do. I would return to London, to my wife and daughter, mourn for an appropriate time, and then resume working at the surgery, get on with life. This is exactly what I appeared to have done.

But he was wrong. I did not get on with my life.

He is a demonstrative man, when he allows himself to indulge his feelings. I am not. My feelings I recognise, but revealing them is hard. I wore my crape hatband for three months, longer than appropriate for a friend, and only stopped wearing it when Mary, always more aware of propriety than I, removed it from my hat and refused to allow me to leave the house if I put it back on. Holmes was more than a mere friend, and when I finally gave up wearing crape, I was lying. My mourning might end, but my grief never would.

Knowing I was alive, he experienced our separation differently, though with no less anguish. What became of me he learned from the newspapers he read, and he grieved at my suffering and his own helplessness. But while I was vainly trying to forget, his grief had turned to determination. He would not die; he would return and prove my grief a lie, whatever it might cost him. When he heard I’d been sent to prison, he began planning his return. Without money, in constant danger of being discovered, he made his journey home, fearing that I’d be angry, hoping that I would not reject him.

And now he was here, and everything was changed. I was not angry; I had no energy for that. I had prayed for his death not to be true; miraculously, he had come back to me. 

Now, we would work, and we would plan. I was elated to have his heart back, but happy also for his brain, which would know how to approach our problem. Though politically naive, Holmes understood the criminal mind and would have ideas. He is a strategist, not a revolutionary; but every revolution needs strategies. My commitment to the cause was complete; I had lived among the people most affected by the politics of Moran and his allies for years.

I’d just wrung out the mop after the final rinse and emptied my bucket when the errand boy came running down the hall towards me.

“What’s the trouble, Davy?” I asked, wiping my hands.

“Doctor Burgess wants to see you. He asked me to catch you before you left.”

Burgess was a colleague from my former life, and now, as chief administrator of the hospital, my boss. In training together, we’d been on friendly terms, but I’d always found him a bit reserved, even remote. He’d hired me for my present position on Stamford’s recommendation, but with unspoken reservations. Our conduct towards one another befitted our relative positions. I was deferential, he was coldly polite.

It did not bode well that Burgess wanted to see me on the day the hospital closed the books on the year.

“I won’t string you along, Watson,” he said in a tone that implied he was doing me a great kindness. “You’re being released from employment.”

I raised my chin. “How have I failed?”

Burgess’s smile was tight, insincere. “You haven’t. Times are tough, even for hospitals. We’re cutting staff. You are the most junior of the cleaning staff. Several of the newer administrative staff are being released as well. Nothing personal.”

“But— someone must clean the building during the day,” I said.

“Another staff member who was to be released has been with us longer. He has agreed to take over the caretaker position. You’ll need to vacate the apartment by tomorrow so he can move in.”

I noticed the leather gloves he was putting on, the handsome greatcoat he wore, the gold watch chain that hung across his waistcoat. I thought about him going home in a carriage to a house in Kensington, opening a flask of fine port, complaining to his wife about the price of Cuban cigars.

“May I ask for a letter of reference, sir? I will need to find a job quickly, and having your word that I was not released for poor performance will be of great assistance.”

“No,” said Burgess. “It is not my practice to write letters for employees who’ve been released.”

I held my temper, but knew my words would have no impact. Nevertheless, I spoke. “I’ve been grateful for the opportunity to serve Bart’s. You did not have to hire me, obviously. I just wonder if, when you release employees from service, you give any thought to how they might live.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “Watson, you and I were colleagues once. We had the same opportunities. That you have squandered the reputation you had is not my concern. We must all live with the consequences of our choices. Foolish and idle people do not deserve my sympathy— or my money.”

I shook my head. “I am not asking for restoration, Burgess. I am willing to live with my choices. I’ve done my time, and I have worked hard to pull myself up. All I ask for is a chance to provide for myself so as not to be a burden to others.”

“There are far too many _burdens_ in this city,” Burgess replied. “How are they my responsibility?”

“Whatever you do, it amounts to the same,” I said. “Give a man a job, or else send him to the workhouse or debtor’s prison, where you will pay for his bed and bread through your taxes.”

Burgess took a cigar out of a silver case and lit it. Seeing that I was still standing, waiting for a reply, he plucked a cigar from the case and held it out. “Merry Christmas, Watson.”

When I failed to take it, he dropped it and crushed it under his boot. Without even turning to look at me, he pulled the door open. “Happy New Year.”

I returned to my rooms and began shoving my few possessions into a satchel. My first reaction, anger, had given way to what my anger was suppressing, namely fear.

The unemployed were considered a burden in Moran’s society. I was not just another unfortunate, out-of-work man. I was John Watson, lover of the infamous Sherlock Holmes, sent to prison in a blaze of publicity. Since my release, Moran must have been watching me closely, waiting for an opportunity to pick me up on some charge that would send me back to gaol. This was why I was so worried about Holmes now. If Moran had an eye on me, it wouldn’t be long before he noticed that his enemy was back. Then he would see Holmes tried for Moriarty’s murder. With Moran’s party controlling the courts, I couldn’t allow that to happen.

They were expecting me at Simon’s house tonight. I’d promised to be there soon after work, but now I needed to think about my options. Tomorrow I must be out of my rooms at the hospital. I would not wait, but would take everything with me tonight. Simon would undoubtedly take me in, but his place was not large, and four people already lived there. I might accept his hospitality for a few days, but soon I must find a job and move out. Without a job, I was likely to be arrested.

I quickly made a mental list of people I would have to ask for help. Joe Lestrade would help, I knew, as would Stamford. Thomas Quick was another person I could rely on. The shopkeepers in Clerkenwell knew me, and might offer me odd jobs. I hated imposing on friends, especially in times that were hard for everyone, but I couldn’t afford to be unemployed for long.

Nor could I endanger those who had been kind to me. Stamford had already taken a risk in recommending me for the hospital job and providing me with medical supplies for my off-the-record medical practice. Of course he would try to help, as would the others, but helping me could be a hazardous business.

Thinking so hard, I realised that I’d lost track of my surroundings. When I came to myself, I was still standing in my tiny bedroom, no bigger than the cell I’d lived in for two years, holding the volume of Dante which Holmes had sent me almost a year ago.

The book had given me both hope and fear— hope that my prayer had been answered, fear that my hopes would crash. I thought of Holmes, standing in a French post office, handing over a few hard-earned coins to mail the parcel. It had taken days to reach me in London, and I had a sudden intuition that it might have been a year ago this very day that he’d handed the parcel over to a clerk and watched it disappear into a sack of mail bound for England.

He would have guessed that I was out of prison by then. A new year was dawning and he was ready to come home, disregarding any danger to himself. It had taken him nearly a full year to get to London, but he’d survived and come back to me.

Losing him the first time had nearly killed me. I had wanted to die then; had it not been for Mary and Rose, I might have fallen into that darkness. As awful as prison had been, it was not worse than what I’d already lived through, seeing him vilified, having our intimate life exposed, feeling that I’d let him down.

Losing him again would be infinitely worse. I had him back, but I still feared for him. And I knew then what I had to do.

My few possessions packed, I walked to Clerkenwell. The snow that had graced the city at Christmas had given way to cold rain. I pulled my jacket close, unable to keep out the wet. Except for days like this where the rain was steady and drenching, I managed without a proper coat. It wasn’t a long walk to Simon’s block of flats, but by the time I arrived, I was chilled to the bone.

Before I could knock, Holmes had the door open, pulling me inside. Laughing, he threw his arms around me. “Happy New Year, Watson,” he said. “By Jove, you’re wet.” He began unwinding my scarf and relieving me of the sodden jacket. “Come and warm yourself by the fire.”

I smiled, wishing I hadn’t bad news to share. “I’m glad to be here,” I said. “And to see you in such a good mood.”

Simon came in from the kitchen with a tray of glasses, Tommy dancing around his feet in excitement. “Doc, it's good to see you. We’ll have some punch as soon as it’s hot enough. At midnight, we’ll toast the new year properly.”

“You’ve brought a satchel,” Holmes said, nodding at my bundle. He smiled, then seemed to notice something. “You’re tired. Perhaps you’d rather go to bed early.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he said, frowning. “Something’s happened.”

Clearly I wasn’t going to be able to keep it from him, but I didn’t want to break the news with Simon and Tommy in the room, preparing for festivities. I wasn’t sure what the sleeping arrangements would be, but resolved that I would at some point have to speak to Holmes alone. “We can talk later,” I said quietly.

Various neighbours began stopping by to give greetings, and I tried to set aside my worries. I noticed a chipped cup into which coins were being dropped, donations towards my doctoring of the poor. Again, I felt overwhelmed by the generosity of my friends and distressed that I was once again entirely dependent on it. I might have been happy just caring for my poor neighbours, but no man likes to be a burden to others.

Remembering Burgess’ words about burdens, I grimaced. Holmes, his eyes still on me, frowned at my expression, andI knew he was not going to wait until the new year before pulling me aside to talk.

When the clock tolled eleven, he grabbed my arm and bundled me into Simon’s coat, my own jacket still being damp. “We’re going for a walk,” he told the others.

The rain had stopped, leaving a damp chill over the city.

“Something has happened,” he said once we were heading down Old Street. “Without telling me what it is, you’ve gone ahead and hashed out some silly, self-sacrificing solution which you won’t reveal to me until you’ve already made arrangements. You will write a note to me, heartfelt and regretful, telling me it’s for my own good and you’ll always love me— and by the time I read this missive, you’ll have boarded a train to some destination you won’t reveal—”

In spite of myself, I had to smile. “And what started this train of deductions?”

“The look on your face when you walked through the door tonight. I know you, John Watson, and I know your face. You wore that same look when you told me you were getting married.” He huffed out a vaporous breath into the cold air. Suddenly he grabbed my hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “You’re going to break my heart again.”

“When I married, it was to keep us both safe,” I pointed out, squeezing his upper arm. “It was for love of you, not her.”

He gave a small snort. “I gave you up once. Perhaps it seemed best at the time, but we both can see how it worked out in the end. Dear God, you had _relations_ with her— and I let you! Never again will I do anything so foolish.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he was declaiming like an orator now, waving his hands and emoting.

“When I was nearly dying in Switzerland,” he continued without pause, “I promised myself that if I ever made it back to you, if I ever saw your face again, I would not be parted from you. So, tell me, Doctor— what is your ridiculous plan? Do you plan to run away to distant cousins in Northumberland and find what work you can? Or were you planning to go further, to Scotland perhaps, or even to America— it would have to be some place where English is spoken, seeing as how your French limps and your German vocabulary is limited to food, and you don’t know the first word of any other useful languages— Australia might do, though what they speak there is barely English—“

“Holmes—“

At my attempted interjection, he seemed to realise he was rambling and waved his free hand dismissively, frowned at me severely, and returned to the point of his declamation. “Were you planning to abandon me, hoping that Moran would notice your departure and never suspect that you’d left me behind in London? And what for? You would forsake me, merely because you’ve been sacked from your pitiful job—“

“How the devil could you know that?” I dropped his arm.

He grabbed my hand and restored it to his elbow. “John, don’t be dense. I am a most observant man, and you are a ridiculously transparent one. And I’ve known you for years.”

“You haven’t _seen_ me for years,” I countered somewhat bitterly.

“And in all that time, your ability to conceal your feelings has not improved. You are more cautious, but no less transparent.” He sighed and squeezed my hand. “And I love you no less for it. Truly, I am as besotted with you as the day we met. But here it is. You’ve been working in a place filled with former colleagues who have little respect for you. One of them must surely be your supervisor. How he must hate seeing you patiently toiling away with your mop, proudly clinging to your last shreds of dignity! He is one of those stiff, cold, respectable men who has a wife, several children, and a young mistress— all of whom he treats with patronising arrogance. He may have once seen you as an equal. Now he is offended by your mere existence. It galls him that you, once his colleague, have buggered away your opportunities for a man like me. Even to see you as a janitor in his hospital makes him feel dirty. It’s the end of the year, a traditional time to give out bonuses to the lucky and dismissals to the less fortunate. Now, what have I missed?”

“I wasn’t going to leave a letter,” I said quietly. “I intended to tell you face to face.”

“No, just— _no_ , John. You are not leaving London. I’ll go to work, and you’ll find another job, and we’ll move into some cheap rooms where we will sleep in one bed and—“

“Hush,” I whispered. “You don’t need to announce it to the neighbourhood.”

“They don’t care. My dear man, these people love you, and most of them at least tolerate me—“

“They love you as well.”

“Then why are you worried?”

“I cannot, _will_ not be the cause—“ I began.

“He doesn’t know I’m here. And even if he guesses, he won’t find me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“How do you think I’ve been spending my days? Sitting by the fire, knitting cosies?” He grinned. “I’ve been picking up gossip, assessing Moran’s reach. Both Simon and Joe have eyes in many places. And I have ways to get into those places, now that I am dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lestrade has found me a job.”

“A job? Where?”

“At the Bagatelle.”

“The club?”

“I’m starting as a dishwasher on Monday, with an opportunity to advance to waiter.”

I grinned. “I suppose that after toiling in mills and factories, washing dishes sounds like a step up in the world.”

“You are missing the significance,” he said. “The Bagatelle is Moran’s card club. He often meets with his cronies there, in a private room.”

“No, Holmes,” I said at once. “You can’t possibly think that you will wait at his table without him noticing.”

“He won’t notice, dear boy. Waiters are invisible, anonymous. A man like Moran doesn’t even think of them as people. They are appliances in tuxedos, slaves who do not speak until spoken to and do his bidding without discussion. I guarantee you that he will not even look at me.”

I had to concede that this was so. “But though he isn’t observant himself, he surely surrounds himself with men who are.”

“I will be vetted by the owner and they will not question it. My French is impeccable, and I will speak little English. Moran is just educated enough to fancy himself intelligent, but he’s not. He will not expect to see me, so he won’t.”

“That sounds… good,” I said. “But you’re overlooking one thing. I left prison with a promissory note, an obligation to repay what the government spent on my trial and imprisonment. A sum is deducted from my wages, and if there are no wages, the state can put me in a workhouse. I’ll need a job, and my chances are better outside of London.”

“Nonsense. Things are bad all over. We’ll find the money to pay off your note. Perhaps Mr Quick can help us with that. But I almost forgot— Joe Lestrade has a friend who runs a small, independent newspaper, the Dispatch. He asked me if I would like to write for him, reporting political news, writing editorials, and so forth. I told him no, but said that I knew someone who is quite an accomplished writer.” He smiled at me. “What do you think?”

“Me? A reporter? I’ve written only stories, Holmes.”

He shrugged. “Storytelling is something you do well. Who better to tell the story of what is happening to England?”

“I’ll have to use a pen name, I suppose,” I said. “Last time I spoke out against Moran, I went to prison.”

“As far as I know, we still have a free press. And that may be one of our best weapons.”

I was startled to see Holy Trinity’s steeple loom up ahead of us. We’d been walking for almost a half an hour, I realised, unwittingly heading in the direction of Baker Street. “We’ll need to turn back,” I said, “if we mean to be there in time to toast the new year.”

We made an about-turn and started back to Old Street. The night was unusually clear and brittle cold.

“This century is wearing out, Watson,” said Holmes. “Like an old man, it’s forgotten the liberal ways of its youth and has become crabbed and covetous.”

“It’s hard to believe.” Shivering, I drew him closer. “The twentieth century will soon be upon us. Another year—”

“Two,” said Holmes. “The new century begins in 1901.”

“Well, we are living out the last year of the 1800s. You can’t correct me on that. Next year we shall begin with the 1900s.”

“These last few years feel like a dream now,” Holmes said, looking up at the few stars that peeped through the haze. “While I was living them, they felt endless. Now, I have the sense that the world is beginning to spin faster.”

His whimsy made me smile. “Then we will need to hang on to it, like a merry-go-round, if we don’t wish to be sent flying.”

I shuddered, partly from the cold, but also from the momentary, odd realisation that I was standing on a planet that was turning faster than I could imagine, looking up at an infinite field of stars where fellow planetary wanderers moved in a kind of dance. The small globe we stood on was part of this universal rotation and orbiting. It was like a cosmic clock, I’d once imagined, with all the parts spinning in sync. I remembered standing in an Afghan desert, looking up at those same stars, and once, on an ice sheet in Greenland, covered in endless night. Away from civilisation, the stars were brighter and more numerous. These days, I spent so much time walking on paved streets and living in buildings made of bricks that I sometimes forgot London was just a tiny pile of manmade misery where stars were only rarely glimpsed through the yellow fog. It was easy to forget how small this planet was, how small I was, standing here, watching the universe revolve.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, lacking the words to express my thoughts..

Holmes smiled, breathing in deeply and exhaling a cloud of vapour. “I’ve missed this.”

“What?” I chuckled. “The fog or the stench?”

Holmes sighed. “All of it.” His expression was infinitely fond. “But without you it would be unbearably empty.”

“Come,” I said, taking his arm. “Let’s get warm.”

As we toasted the arrival of 1899, I thought of how the bleakness of the previous year had turned to unexpected joy, and vowed to remain hopeful.

The first day of the new year was a Sunday, and I insisted that we go to church. We rose early and walked to Marylebone. Holmes grumbled that all churches were the same and God would not care if we went to St Lukes, which was much closer, but I wanted to sit in our pew, where we had last sat together eight years ago at Christmas.

We walked briskly, though, and by the time we arrived were perspiring in our coats. As I sat in the pew, I thought about Holmes living in a monastery in Milan. He had mentioned his stay there, but hadn’t said much about what he did during those months.

He was not a religious man, I’d always known, but he had been brought up Church of England and did not object to occasionally sitting in the pew and participating in the liturgy. If he had any theological ideas, he kept them to himself. Begin a rational man, he was probably an atheist at heart, and though I’d heard him say that religion was bunkum, I’d never heard him make the same comment about God.

My own thoughts about the Almighty were stranded somewhere between my childhood faith and the abandonment I’d felt over the last years. While I hadn’t expected that my own troubles even registered on the Almighty’s agenda, He had answered my prayer in the most direct way possible. _Please don’t be dead,_ I’d asked. And here was Holmes, walking at my side down York Street, very much alive, plausible confirmation of the existence of God.

His presence also made me wonder why God had chosen to answer the prayer of me, an avowed, unrepentant sinner.

“Sinners are God’s blank cheques,” Holmes said. “He is waiting to see how much we will draw, and what we will spend it on.”

He had done this before, breaking into my reveries with the answer to a question I had silently asked. At times, it was exasperating to be so transparent. At this moment, however, as we walked through our old neighbourhood, it made me smile. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

He chuckled. “We’ve been sitting in church for forty-five minutes. While you believe in God, and feel your prayer has been answered, you wonder why.” He tightened his grip on my arm. “And you’re not always transparent. I never really know your limits.”

“Oh? And have I surprised you recently?”

“You have. I didn’t expect…” He sighed. “If you must know, I was surprised that you pleaded guilty. You have explained it to me, and I understand why you didn’t fight the charges, but… it was unexpected. I thought you would fight it, at least for the sake of your family.”

“It would have been a lie. I am tired of lying, Holmes.”

We were at the corner of Baker Street. York Street came to an end and we had no choice but to walk north or south along our old street. South to Oxford Street, or north to Marylebone. Holmes grabbed my arm and turned north.

“We shouldn’t,” I said. “Either of us might be recognised.”

“Neither of us looks as we once did,” he replied. “I’ve dreamed of 221B Baker Street for seven years. If only from the outside, I’d like to have a look.”

“Sentiment?” I smiled up at him.

He squeezed my hand. “To get to sleep at night, I would imagine I was sitting in my chair, smoking my pipe. You would be across from me with a book and a cigar. We would be sitting in silence, wrapped in that perfect contentment that one can find only with an intimate friend.”

“I remember evenings like that. Too many, though, and you’d be chomping at the bit, eager for a case.”

“True. Fortunately, there were enough boring evenings for me to store them up in my mind, like a room I could go to and close the door, shutting out everything else. It’s amazing how comforting boredom looks when one is waking up to the smell of smoke, realising that the mill is on fire.”

“That’s one you haven’t told me yet,” I said. “My life hasn’t been so exciting. In prison, I had all the boredom I could stand. I used to imagine we were on a case, creeping down an alley with revolvers in our hands, on the trail of a suspect.”

We stood in front of our old home.

“Door’s been repainted,” he noted. “And the shutters as well. Look, there are the scuffs I made knocking the dirt off my shoes. Mrs Hudson used to fuss about that. Probably two years ago they painted, judging by the degree of weathering. And they’ve fixed the knocker so it doesn’t angle sideways. No— it’s a new knocker entirely.”

He approached the door.

“Don’t.” I caught his arm, held it. “It’s New Year’s Day. Whoever lives here now, they’re celebrating and don’t need any ghosts in their parlour.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“She’s retired to Scotland. Simon told me her nephew manages the building.”

I stood looking at the glowing windows in what had once been our flat.

“Watson?”

“I can’t,” I said softly. “Not today.”

The street was empty. Cautious nonetheless, he slipped his arm through mine, patting it with his free hand. “It’s all right, love. There are other places we will call home.”

Simon found us a basement flat in a building on Seymour Street, closer to our old diggings, the rent more affordable because we had agreed to do some maintenance work in the building. We couldn’t afford Baker Street now, but having our own rooms was worth infinitely more. Having each other in privacy made our public lives so much easier.

I woke up on the second Monday of the new year and found Holmes shaving. “First day,” he said. “Need to look the part.”

The part was Julien Durant, an expatriate Frenchman who wore a Van Dyke beard and was employed as a dishwasher aspiring to wait tables. For this role he had shaved his cheeks and slicked his curly hair into obedience with Macassar oil.

“The British prefer their waiters clean-shaven,” he explained, speaking with a French accent. “But I am European. How do I look?”

When Holmes adopted a role, he did not merely change his costume or his facial hair; his expression, his manners, and his very soul seemed to alter. I have often thought that the stage lost a fine actor when he became a specialist in crime. And I had to admit that his brilliance was affecting me in ways that might make him late for work.

“You look very handsome.” I put my arms around his slim waist, pulling him close.

“Mon cher,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “You will visit Monsieur Brody at his newspaper today. Lestrade has already told him about you, so he will be expecting you.” So saying, he kissed me lightly. “À ce soir.”

Edward Brody was an even smaller man than I, a dark Irishman with endless energy that erupted in short rants about politics, politicians, poverty, and the press.

He showed me the machinery. “Breaks down constantly. That’s one of your duties, you know, to learn how to take it apart, put it back in working order.” He grinned at me. “And you thought being a newspaperman meant chasing down interviews with the man— or woman— of the moment. I’m afraid we don’t get the big stories. We publish once a week, so most of our work is long-term investigative journalism. Joe said you can write.”

“I’ve published stories.” I’d been rather proud of my publishing success, and used to preen a bit whenever a new story came out in the Strand. Now my accomplishments seemed trifling compared with the kind of serious writing Brody did. Writing detective stories for entertainment was not important. I’d had no deadlines to write my stories, and could alter the facts to suit circumstances.

“I’ve read them,” he said. “You’ve got a good eye for detail. Good presentation of plot, a bit of a dramatic flair. That’s good. Rule number one for us is getting the reader to pay for a paper, and that means grabbing his attention. It requires some drama, and a straight-forward way of presenting facts that at the same time works on the emotions. We publish editorials. Our main audience already agrees with us, of course, but we love to annoy the opposition, pointing out anything we can dig up.”

I nodded. “I’m happy to do whatever you need me to do.”

“You’re a doctor, right?”

I said that I was, or at least had been.

“One long-term series we’re planning concerns the impact of the Poor Law. We’ve been exposing the legal technicalities they’re using to pull the wool over our eyes. You might look into how it’s affecting medical care among the poor.”

“I could do that,” I said.

“Maybe you could follow the trials of a poor family. It could be a composite, of course, a bit fictionalised. That’s expected.”

I was sure that Moran’s people were spreading many lies via the newspapers; what I was being asked to do might not be hard journalism, but would capture what was happening in a way that people would read. “I‘ll get started on it.”

“Good. Now, let me show you how to run this press. I’ve got a typesetter and a pressman, but we all pitch in when needed. Our paper goes into print every Friday. Thursdays are when it usually breaks down.”

Holmes was promoted to waiter after a few days, mostly because Moran preferred to surround himself with staff who spoke little English, and Sherlock had been careful not to let on that he understood it. Listening to staff gossip, he had already learned that most of the staff at the club hated Moran. It was commonly known that he cheated at cards, they said, though nothing could be done about it. A man with such influence was not a man to cross, and as serious as the charge was, it was not likely to stop his campaign.

“I have other lines in the water,” Holmes told me. “I confess that my patience is thin, but I am willing to wait until I am sure we can hook him.”

My own job had me interviewing people. I went into the poorest neighbourhoods with my Gladstone bag, which gave me a doctor’s credibility to ask questions. Because I was tending to my informers as well as interviewing them, I was often out in the evenings. This worried Holmes quite a bit; he made me promise to be home by dark each day. Simon asked his brother and a couple older boys to walk with me as I made my rounds. As an ex-convict, I could not afford to carry a gun. The penalty for being caught with one would be a longer prison term than what I had served for gross indecency. I carried a knife in my bag, and another strapped to my ankle.

Holmes had chosen a pen name for me: _Jack Locke_ , after the philosopher John Locke. I used this name as I went about my investigations, and my stories were published under the byline: _Doctor Locke_.

Finally, I felt useful, after so many years of pointless work— grinding air, the guards at Pentonville used to call it. It wasn’t just the treadmill, though. It was everything that had happened after Reichenbach. I hadn’t worked at anything that had meaning for years, not since I’d gone out on cases with Holmes. I had forgotten how that felt.

By March, several of my stories had been published were drawing notice. It was to be expected that the party of Moran had noticed as well. Though I didn’t hear any opposition, I kept my eyes and ears open.

The sky was darkening one night when I turned onto Essex Road, a good deal further from Seymour Street than I wanted to be. The days were longer now that winter was over, and I had been tempted into staying later than was wise. Tommy was with me, hardly a formidable bodyguard, but at least if anyone gave me trouble, he knew to go for help.

Tommy was running a bit ahead, pretending to be my scout, then running back to tell me about every person he had spotted, as if he were practicing to be Sherlock Holmes, who had become his new hero.

The streets were almost deserted, and I was alert.

A plainclothes copper stood on the corner— Jones was his name, I thought. My relationship with the police now was polite and cooperative, but not overly friendly. Many of them disliked Moran and his thugs, but I assumed that there were others who worked for him.

“Doctor Watson,” he said as Tommy and I approached.

Tipping my hat, I smiled. “Mr Jones.”

I felt a prickle of fear even before he held up his hand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me, Doctor.”

It then hit me: _Doctor._ The police never addressed me as anything but _Mister Watson,_ even when I was carrying the Gladstone.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

“I have a warrant for your arrest.” He narrowed his eyes at me, as if trying to assess something.

“What’s the charge?”

“Vagrancy.” He said the word gently, almost apologetically, but I knew he was anything but sorry.

And I suddenly remembered who he was. Holmes, telling me about the Yard Christmas gala, the constable who had tried to entrap him. Just the kind of man who could find advancement working for Moran.

I almost laughed, but knew it was no joke. “I work as a reporter for a newspaper, Mr Jones. If you’ve seen me about the streets, it’s because of my work.”

He shook his head. “Those are my orders, Doctor.”

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll call my solicitor when we get to the station.” I turned to Tommy, who was staring daggers at Jones but had the sense to be quiet. Thank God, Simon had taught him well. “Tommy, will you please let your brother know I’ve been detained, and ask him to contact Mr Lestrade.” I didn’t mention my flatmate, _Mr Scott._ I thought about handing Tommy the Gladstone, but there wasn’t anything incriminating inside it, and Jones might have objected if I gave it to the boy.

Tommy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He gave a final glare at Jones and then took off like a shot.

I turned back to Mr Jones. “I am at your disposal, sir.”


End file.
